


Hush Little Baby

by metarachel, omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Cursed Dean Winchester, Cursed Sam Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Incest, Forced Orgasm, Forced wincest, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Painful Sex, Quote: Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically irrationally erotically codependent on each other, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 03, Sex Curse, Sleep Sex, Sleepwalking, pwp with accidental plot, well ok maybe a SLIVER of comfort but u gotta squint ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/pseuds/metarachel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: Sam leans forward, reaches out with his free hand.Move, damn it,Dean screams inside his head, but his body isn’t under his control anymore.It’s under Sam’s. Or. Not-Sam’s. Whatever-the-fuck evil skank has taken his brother’s form.For this prompt: Sam is sleepwalking/physically and sexually assaulting Dean in his sleep. At least, Dean thinks so . . .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/gifts).

> This fic is completed, and the second chapter will post in three days.
> 
> A HUGE thank-you to Rivkat, both for the amazing prompt and for donating to Random Acts via the 2019 Fandom Trumps Hate auction to make this fic happen!
> 
> This is also Bubble's 100th fic, and just, what a way to become a centenarian 😈

The mattress dips as someone else gets in beside him, and it’s been over a decade since he and Sam shared a bed but he still knows the shape of his brother’s body beneath the covers. They spent their whole childhood in cheap hotel rooms, and even when John had splurged for something bigger, Sam had turned up in his bed more often than not. It’s deeply familiar, and that’s why he doesn’t bother opening his eyes all the way. Besides, Sam’s been way more handsy since he learned about Dean’s deal. 

_Nightmare?_ Dean tries to ask. They both get them often enough. Especially _now_.

But he can’t speak. Can’t even open his mouth to try.

Can’t move _at all_. 

It’s zero to sixty in a tenth of a second; Dean’s suddenly wide awake, and he still can’t move and he still can’t speak and Sam’s giant paw of a hand is touching his stomach and he’s . . . _naked_?

What.

The fuck.

_Sam. _The question forms perfectly in his head but absolutely refuses to exit. His mouth isn’t numb, just . . . disconnected, somehow, from his brain. His eyes still work, though, and he shifts them as much as he can. He can just make out Sam moving to kneel between his spread legs.

His brother is also naked.

_Well, brain, I gotta hand it to ya—points for the Most Awkward Dream in the History of Ever._

Sam’s hand leaves Dean’s stomach and moves outside his field of vision. Something clicks. Something squelches. Dean still can’t ask what the fuck is going on, and he can’t help but notice how very much this doesn’t _feel _like a dream. Nightmare. Whatever. Dean knows nightmares, he’s lived through enough nightmare-fuel to last one hundred lifetimes, but this is . . . This is different.

While Dean’s busy debating whether or not now is the appropriate time to start panicking, something cold and wet brushes against his taint. He jerks away with a gasp, except in reality he neither jerks nor gasps, and then the cold-wet-something—_fingers_, he realizes, _my own _brother’s _fucking fingers_—are shoving up his ass.

He decides that now would, in fact, be a _great _time to panic, and proceeds to send messages to every neuron in his body to get with the program, but nothing moves. Even his damn heart refuses to thrash. He’s like a doll, and then he can’t stop himself from correcting: a _sex_ doll. 

Sam leans forward, reaches out with his free hand. _Move, damn it_, Dean screams inside his head, but his body isn’t under his control anymore.

It’s under Sam’s. Or. Not-Sam’s. Whatever-the-fuck evil skank has taken his brother’s form.

“Shhh,” Sam soothes, stroking his cheek with one hand, even as the other works inside him, twisting and pumping and stretching. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thinks it should; even his own asshole is out of his control, refusing to clench. “Shhh.”

Like he has any fucking choice.

Sam’s fingers do something inside him, and for a moment the instinct to throw him into a wall is so powerful he thinks for sure it’s going to happen—that this dream or whatever can’t possibly be strong enough to stop him. But in the next second the fingers on his cheek smooth down to touch his lips and the certainty vanishes. That’s _Sam._ That’s Sam’s palm on his jaw, Sam’s thumb between his unresisting lips, pushing in to touch his tongue. It doesn’t taste like a dream, it tastes like skin, like, _fuck,_ like his brother is in his mouth.

The awful feeling of fingers in his ass recedes, but before he can begin to hope that it’s over there’s fresh pressure down there, and Sam shifts above him, rising up on his elbows so he can look down the length of their bodies at whatever he’s trying to do next. More fingers, Dean thinks, though it’s hard to tell when he can’t see and when he still can’t move and when his muscles won’t do a thing to prevent Sam from twisting against his hole, wedging in just a bit before the rest follows with a sharp burn. It’s slippery but not slippery enough, way too big to go where it’s being shoved, and Dean clenches his eyes closed just because he _can_.

There’s a bolt of pain up his spine that he knows is supposed to be followed by a muscular reaction but nothing is doing what it’s supposed to do. He doesn’t kick, or shout, or even twitch. Sam’s fingers squeeze into him until he can feel knuckles at his rim and that _shouldn’t be possible,_ there’s no way it’s real, there’s no way this is happening in this shitty motel bed in this shitty town at the end of this shitty hunt.

This is a dream. Just _a dream_.

_Feels awfully real for a dream, though,_ his brain unhelpfully points out. Or at least he assumes it does—it’s not like he’s ever had _fingers up his ass _before. Or _anything _up his ass before, for that matter. To which his brain even more unhelpfully adds, _And do you really think I magically invented this sensation of pressure-pain up your ass?_

The pressure-pain up his ass takes the cue to disappear, and it’s true that this isn’t something he has any experience with, but even he knows what it means when Sam moves down his body, presses Dean’s thighs further apart to fit his hips between. There’s pressure again, and even though he can’t see what’s going on it feels different to Sam’s fingers. It’s hotter, thicker, the burn sharper and he knows, he knows, damn it to Hell and back he knows what that is.

_It’s just a dream it’s just a dream a _freaky _fucking dream but just a dream just a dream . . ._

Sam grunts, and the sound is so familiar yet also so _different_ to anything Dean’s ever heard come from Sam’s mouth, he wonders how his brain can invent something so realistic, so _Sam._

This is the moment where the cavalry is supposed to arrive. John’s going to come back from the dead or the real Sam is going to bust in and put a stop to this or _something,_ but instead Sam grunts again—terrible in all the ways it’s new and familiar at once—and then the heat is _in_ him and the smoldering burn bursts into a flame, and he feels his body jerk without jerking, flinch without flinching. He _screams_ without making any noise at all.

Sam’s making plenty enough noise for the both of them.

_Wake up wake up wake _up _damn it!_

But he doesn’t. And he won’t, because there’s no way, _no way _this is a dream. Sam pulls out, and Dean feels every single millimeter of _his brother’s cock _dragging against his insides, leaving fire in its wake. Thrusts in again with another grunt and Dean screws his eyes shut, can’t watch this—the sweat damping Sam’s hairline, the hunger in those eyes, the way his lips are pulled back from his teeth in a sick grin of triumph.

In the next second it doesn’t matter that he’s closed his eyes because Sam just presses his face to Dean’s neck, gets his grinning teeth up against the underside of Dean’s jaw, opens, closes, grunts again, his breath hot and moist on the skin there. Something wet. Sam’s _tongue._ Sam licks him, closes careful teeth over the same spot. His hips pull back, push forward again, and Dean moves with the upward thrust, his head lolling sideways on the pillow as though he’s inviting Sam in for more. Sam takes the unintentional offer, groans deep and long into Dean’s throat, still with skin between his teeth.

_Not Sam. It _can’t _be Sam._

A single hard thrust drives Not-Sam so deep inside Dean he feels like he’s been gut-punched. Another groan shivers up and down the skin of his throat, still caught between careful teeth. Not-Sam stills for a long moment, panting hard into Dean’s throat, pausing like he’s taking time to _revel _in Dean. A tiny thrust then, more like a wiggle of Not-Sam’s hips; then another, and another, each one sending little shockwaves up and down Dean’s body, sparks of misery he can’t even begin to escape from. 

Sam can’t seem to stop the jerky movements. His hips rock against Dean’s ass, his chest stutters with each ragged breath, his hands flutter for a moment before finding new resting spots: one on Dean’s belly and another on his throat, squeezing _(Jesus fuck he’s going to choke me and I won’t be able to stop him)_ before drifting up to grip his jaw from the underside, shifting his head back over so when Dean opens his eyes, Sam (_not-Sam_) is right there, right there in front of him, pupils blown and mouth open and breath hot on Dean’s face as both hands clench and his face tightens and he ducks his forehead down for just a second to lean against Dean’s, their lips a bare inch apart. 

The thought of being kissed is somehow so abhorrent he momentarily forgets what’s happening elsewhere, but then Sam’s hips pump again, like Sam’s searching for a place inside Dean with his dick, and their lips don’t touch but everything else does, their chests, their thighs, their calves, their foreheads and Sam’s straining against him, holding his head in place so they’re staring at each other as he does it, dick flexing inside him as everything goes all slippery and wet and there’s only one thing that can mean and even as he knows it he begs himself not to know it. Sam’s coming, he’s coming _in_ Dean. In his _own brother_. 

_No. Not Sam not Sam it can’t be him it can’t be real it—_

Lips pressing to his own derail his panic for a fraction of a second before launching a whole new panic. This _thing _on top of him is _kissing him_ like it cares, like it _loves _him, like it wants him to be happy even after it’s used and abused and hurt him. Dean wills himself to turn away with everything in him, but it’s not enough, he gets nowhere. Hates how gentle the kiss is, how undemanding, how _tender_. It makes what Not-Sam has just done to him, _taken _from him, feel even wronger by contrast. 

The kiss continues as Not-Sam pulls out of Dean’s ass with a flare of pain like road rash on the inside. Kisses his chin. His chest. His stomach. Strokes a tender hand across Dean’s thigh, then disappears from view.

Dean still can’t move. He’s covered in his brother’s sweat and spit and come, and he’s _exposed_, and he’s _still fucking frozen._ He can feel things cooling on his thighs. He can _feel the inside of his own ass,_ like a fresh wound rubbed red-raw.

He needs to break out of this trance, or nightmare, or whatever-the-fuck.

Instead, he closes his eyes.

When he opens them nothing has changed, except everything’s different. It’s the same bed, the same motel room, the same cracked plaster on the ceiling. But he’s covered by sheets instead of Sam’s body.

He looks down at himself and he—_he looks down at himself._ His head moves. His _body_ moves. He throws himself off the bed and he’s moving, he’s moving, and he’s reaching for the bag on the chair: his guns, the holy water, fucking, god damn, _anything,_ he needs a weapon in his hand but then he hears Sam calling his name and he stumbles into the table instead and he fumbles for the bag while turning to Sam in the same instant. Sam’s standing next to his own bed, rubbing his eyes with one hand and gripping a gun in the other but pointing it at nothing because he’s not sure where the danger is. Because he _is _the danger. 

_No. Because there _is _no danger. _Sam’s hair is sleep-mussed and his t-shirt is wrinkled and he looks like an overgrown twelve-year-old, years and worlds apart from the lust-filled monster who’d— 

Dean swallows. Shakes his head. _No. Not going there. Just a dream._

Dean looks down at himself, expects to see finger-shaped bruises and the stains of someone else on his skin. But he’s wearing a t-shirt, the same old grey shirt he had put on last night. His boxers, too, clean and undamaged and very definitely _on_ him, exactly where they were supposed to be. He lunges toward the bed, tears the covers off. No wet spot. No stain. No nothing. The sheets are clean and so is he.

“Dean?” Sam says again, still with his hand around the grip of the gun but his finger well clear of the trigger.

And, “Nothing,” Dean tells him, because it is, it’s nothing, so what if his ass feels sore? It’s just his mind playing tricks on him. “It was just a nightmare. Sorry I woke you.”

Sam isn’t looking at him when he says, “No problem, man, it’s cool. I’m just, uh.” He puts the gun down on the foot of his bed, drags both hands through his ridiculous hair. Still doesn’t look at Dean. “I’m just gonna take a shower, okay?”

“Pretty sure you don’t need my permission for that,” Dean says, setting down his own gun. His joke misses for both of them—Sam smiles flatly somewhere off to Dean’s left. What he _should’ve _said is _Oldest brother goes first _because it might’ve all just been a nightmare and the burning sting in his ass might all be in his head, but god does he ever _need _a shower. Too late, though—Sam’s already heading toward the bathroom, giving Dean a strangely wide berth along the way.

After that, their morning proceeds like nothing’s happened. _Yeah, genius, because nothing _did _happen. _Sam showers while Dean packs. Dean showers while Sam gets breakfast. He touches himself as he washes, gently, exploratory. A little flare of pain when his finger circles his rim, but there’s no blood, no scabs, no swelling he can feel, no come leaking out of his ass. It’s all in his head, then—that slimy sensation of being used. Just . . . all in his head.

They load the car and eat while they peel out of town, and if they’re both quieter than usual then neither of them mentions it. Dean squirms a little in his seat and turns the radio up, and Sam digs out his laptop to go through the news of the day, already searching for another case. It . . . It could be familiar. This could be normal. Their hands don’t touch when Dean passes a beer over that afternoon, but that’s normal too.

They find a case in Omaha, check into yet another cheap motel. He waits for Sam to use the bathroom before digging through their supply of painkillers and bandages. There’s a pack of valium at the bottom and he takes three whole, chasing them with a beer. He doesn’t want to dream, but he doesn’t want to lie awake all night, either. This should take care of both problems.

He manages to brush his teeth before the first wave of exhaustion sweeps him. If Sam thinks anything of his pajama choice—boxers, long pants, a t-shirt, and a flannel—he doesn’t mention it. Sam’s near-fully dressed, too. So maybe it’s just a cold night. It is February in Nebraska, after all.

He passes out almost before he hits the mattress.

_No dreams tonight,_ is his last triumphant thought.

He opens his eyes and it’s dark and it’s not the kind of dark that means it’s the middle of the night, it’s the kind of dark that means there’s something over his head or over his eyes and his first instinct is to panic but he doesn’t, shit, fuck, he doesn’t move_,_ he _can’t _move, and there’s movement behind him and _oh God no, not again_. It’s dark because he’s face down on the mattress and his neck’s at an awful angle because there’s no pillow beneath his head because, shit, because the pillow has been commandeered and is now underneath his hips, stacked on top of at least two others so he’s angled up in the air with his weight going weirdly into his face and chest and—

Fingers touch his ass and he realises he’s naked and he _can’t see who’s behind him_ and he rolls over, kicks out, fends the stranger off except of course he doesn’t, he can’t move, he doesn’t even twitch as the fingers skate around and under his hips and lift him up higher onto the pile of pillows, pushing his knees out so it’s obvious where this is going even before it’s really started and he can’t, he can’t do this again, he _can’t be here again._

There’s a loud _smack_ and he figures out what it is even before he feels the sting of it on his ass. Two hands grab roughly, pulling his cheeks apart, then disappear to slap down again, and again, and he’s being _spanked_ and he can’t even tell if those are Sam’s hands, really doesn’t want them to be but if it’s not Sam then _who._ Thumbs dig in between his cheeks and spread him wide, and someone—please God let it not be Sam, let it not be _anyone,_ that doesn’t even make sense—spits and he feels it hot-then-cold on his hole, sliding down his crack before the hands let him go and it feels awful and wet before the hands come back to hit him again, firing heat all over his ass until he’s sure he’s bright red but they keep going and it stops feeling just hot and starts feeling _too_ hot and then it’s not just too hot it’s painful, it _hurts_, he would beg for it to stop if he could but he doesn’t have to because the next time the hands come down they dig into his cheeks and whoever it is spits again and it shouldn’t feel cool on his burning ass but it does, ugh, gross, his overheated skin practically sizzling with it. 

The hands clench against him and knead roughly and then he’s pulled open wide—far too wide—and thumbs dig through the mess of spit to push straight into his hole and his body doesn’t clench down or flinch away or _anything,_ and both thumbs squeeze in and it hurts in more ways than just the stretch. He’s sore. Used. He’s _still hurting from yesterday,_ he realises, because the first time wasn’t a dream and this time isn’t either and it’s going to happen again, he’s going to get, to get—

The thumbs spread apart, pulling him open way before he’s ready but what his body is and isn’t ready for wasn’t part of the agenda last night and it certainly doesn’t make the list tonight, either. He can feel cool air in places he’s only just learning about. Then that sound again, someone spitting, and they must have good aim because he feels it landing right between the thumbs and sliding deep and it’s thick, slimy, _wrong,_ but not as wrong as the huff of laughter that comes from behind him because that’s _Sam,_ and then he can’t even pretend he didn’t hear it because Sam’s thighs press up against the back of his thighs and Sam says “Shhh,” just like he did last night, cold and amused and lustful, and those are his thumbs in Dean’s ass and his fingers clenching against Dean’s skin and that’s his _spit_ inside Dean and then he says Dean’s name, all low and warm and _inviting _like he’s given Dean some kind of _choice_.

The shape of his dick is unmistakable where it presses hard and hot against the length of his ass, sliding through the spit there and then onto the small of his back so he can feel how big it is—how long and heavy and _huge_ and how it’s unfathomably hotter than his skin—and it must be leaking because it leaves sticky trails against his spine that cool almost instantly.

_Don’t,_ Dean tries to say, but Sam’s thumbs are still in him and Sam relaxes them and then pulls again, letting Dean close and open to a beat Dean can’t figure. Sam moves, and his dick slides down, down, til it’s off Dean’s back and then it’s just the tip between his cheeks and he can’t see this time but that’s somehow worse because there’s nothing else to do except _feel_ it: feel how his ass still stings, feel how Sam has to shift minutely to get the right angle, not even pulling his thumbs out before he’s pushing his dick between them.

_It’s not going to work,_ Dean thinks, but then the tip is inside him and it burns and Sam slips one thumb out but leaves the other in and Dean recognises the click, realises it must be a bottle of lube because Sam’s hand comes back wet and cold and when he presses in his dick is wet and cold too and it slips in easy, much easier, and he pulls his other thumb out to give himself more room to fuck further in.

It’s instantly worse than last night. He hurts, for one. He’s sore and raw and he’s not nearly open enough. But on top of that the angle is awful, truly awful. Sam’s dick feels like it’s sawing him in half.

Sam leans over him, chest to back, and nuzzles by Dean’s ear. Murmurs, “Don’t worry, big brother, I’m gonna take care of you. Make you feel so good.”

But it’s not good, it’s _not_, it’s so bad he thinks there’s no way he’s going to be able to stay still. Or that he’ll puke and then suffocate on his own puke because he _can’t fucking move_, can’t even lift his face out of the pillow to suck in some much-needed air. Something’s gotta give. His stomach or his spine or his brain or, fuck, his _ass._

And just when he thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, Sam wedges a hand between Dean’s hips and the pillows, and wraps incongruously gentle fingers around Dean’s dick.

He’s not hard. He’s not gonna _be _hard. Between the pain and the horror and the fear and the disgust and the _utter fucking helplessness_, he’s never been further from a hard-on in his—

But then he is, so suddenly he feels the blood drain from his head and flood into his dick. Like _magic_. Like fucking _mind control. _He still hurts and he’s still afraid and disgusted and helpless and nauseous and _fucking hard in his brother’s hand_.

_No_, he moans, except he doesn’t, he can’t. _Please. Don’t do this. Not _this.

“Shhh,” Sam whispers again in Dean’s ear. It sends shivers-but-not-shivers up and down that side of his body; he _feels _them even though he doesn’t move. “I told you, Dean, I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

_No_, he thinks again, because whatever this creature is on top of him, it seems to be able to read his mind. _I don’t want it, please, stop. _And then, for good measure, even though he knows it’s futile, _Please. Let me go._

But it ignores him this time, or maybe it can’t actually hear his thoughts, or maybe it can but it doesn’t fucking care because it’s a goddamned monster, after all, it’s one of the things they hunt and somehow it’s followed them from Utah to Nebraska, it’s a monster and it’s hunting _them_, it _has to be._

God, he’s gonna kill this son of a bitch _so dead _when he can fucking move again.

That’s the thought that keeps him going as the thing fucks into him, whispers to him in Sam’s voice and strokes him with Sam’s fingers and kisses the back of his neck with Sam’s lips. _You’re dead,_ he silently tells it as it brings his body up to a brink that shouldn’t be possible like this. _You’re dead,_ he tells it as it levers itself up on Sam’s knees and presses in deeper with Sam’s dick and finds a spot inside him that makes everything go weird and tingly and _too much_ at once. _Slowly and painfully_, he adds as it chuckles and hits that spot again, again, again.

Despite the impossibility of his erection, Dean feels himself bounding up to the peak of an orgasm that he doesn’t want, not even a little, no matter how much this monster has manipulated his body. But Sam’s nail catches at the underside of his head and the flats of his fingers are rough-and-sweet where they stroke him, so unlike the sharp thrusts of his dick in Dean’s ass.

He reaches the moment where he expects his body to fall off the edge and into relief, but then the moment drops out from under him like missing the last step on a staircase.

“Uh-uh, big bro,” Sam chides. “_I _get to go first for once.”

Dean’s insides lurch and Sam’s fingers just keep going, keep stroking, and he’s fucking harder, now, his thighs slapping Dean’s burning ass and the cheap motel headboard banging into the wall with every thrust. It’s worse than the first day. It’s taking longer; maybe this monster with Sam’s face has learned to control itself better because it feels like it’s going to fuck him forever and as much as he doesn’t want what comes next he _does_ want it to be over.

A particularly brutal thrust makes something crack in the bedframe and suddenly there’s a sliver of light where his head’s rocked to the side. He can’t see much: the bathroom door, their bags, a few newspaper clippings for the new case . . . and Sam’s empty bed.

_No. No, it can’t be._

Sam’s . . . in the bathroom. Out for coffee. Sleeping in the Impala. Force-frozen by this monster just like Dean is, somewhere out of his very limited line of sight.

“Just you and me here,” Sam manages, and he sounds fucking wrecked. He sounds like Sam after a hard fight. 

There’s a gun on the side table, resting on top of the newspaper clippings to keep them in a pile. There might even still be one under his pillow, the one he always sleeps with that maybe the monster didn’t bother to take. If he can get his hands on one he can finish this properly. It’s only a few feet away, easily in reach.

But his body isn’t his anymore. The only reason he’s moving is because Sam’s fucking him so hard that he’s being shoved across the mattress. 

The hand that isn’t on his dick slides up to grip the short hair at the back of his head. “Just you and me,” Sam says again, and then Dean’s face is being turned back into the mattress and it’s dark and hot and suffocating again and he can’t hear a thing beyond Sam panting wet and warm in his ear and there’s nothing to focus on except for the places Sam’s touching. The places he’s been rubbed raw against the mattress and rubbed raw by Sam’s cock. The painful stretch of his thighs spread too wide. The pressure of the rock-hard motel pillows below his rock-hard dick, supporting his weight _and _Sam’s.

“Almost,” Sam grunts, and just like that Dean’s magically forced right there with him, body straining toward a finish line he doesn’t want to reach. He clenches his eyes shut even though it doesn’t make a difference, and he tries to keep the swell of his orgasm at bay through sheer force of will. He wants to believe that his own mind is still under his control. 

Sam’s fingers fist in his hair as his whole body shoves forward and pain flares behind his eyes as Sam shoves him harder into the mattress, his nose getting crushed beneath the pressure. But it doesn’t make a difference, doesn’t stop Sam from curling up over Dean to get as much of his dick in as possible, grunting and breathing hard like he’s more animal than human (_monster_, _he’s a _monster _not my brother_) and Dean is nothing more than a convenient hole to use. 

Sam’s fingers clench on the wrong side of hard, pulling hairs from Dean’s scalp and gripping his cock with his other hand. Dean stays balanced on the edge of orgasm and Sam huffs above him, every muscle locking tight. There’s a telltale flush of heat somewhere below his belly and he very deliberately doesn’t think about what Sam’s leaving inside him. Between his body and the pillows he’s still rock-hard but he feels a momentary burst of triumph—he didn’t come. Sam can’t control that part of him. But then Sam takes a deeper breath and turns his face into Dean’s neck, kisses down his spine. Lazy, like the first time. Almost tender.

“Don’ worry,” he practically slurs. His fingers don’t even move where they’re still wrapped around Dean’s cock but there’s a swell of something awful and huge and then Dean’s coming, he can’t help it, his cock blurting liquid betrayal right into Sam’s waiting palm. He doesn’t thrust into it—can’t move—but his ass almost clenches, enough that he can feel the huge intrusion still inside him. Sam groans like he can feel that, too. 

“That’s it,” Sam coos. He gives an aborted thrust and strokes his hand again and it’s too much, doesn’t even feel close to good. Dean’s oversensitive to the point of pain but he can’t jerk away from it, and Sam makes a sound like he might be thinking about round two. He thrusts again and that’s awful too—painfully sensitive on the inside, and on the outside Dean can feel how it forces some unholy mix of lube and his brother’s come out of his ass. And Sam is still hard. How is he still so hard?

_Please stop. Please. I can’t . . . I can’t take this again._

With one last kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, Sam pulls out.

Dean expects it to start again. He expects to be hurt, or kissed, or fucked, or any number of other violations, but what ends up happening is Sam gets off the bed . . .

And Dean sleeps.

And then he wakes.

This time the gun is in his hand before he’s even fully upright. Sam hits the bedside light at the same time that Dean brings the weapon up, and Sam doesn’t even really see it, he’s only looking at Dean. His skin is ghost-pale.

“I—” he says. Gulps. Puts a hand over his mouth. “I had a nightmare,” he whispers, and just like that it hits Dean that he’s holding a gun, a _gun,_ he’s pointing _a gun_ at Sammy’s head, and he drops it so fast he actually gets a physical recoil all up his arm—like the limb itself was nauseated by what he’d done, too. _Not Sam!_

He stares down at it lying on the bedspread. A lethal weapon that he had turned on his brother. Feels the shame of it creeping up his skin and knows that shame is going to feel awful familiar for the rest of his short life.

“Me too,” he manages.

They both move at the same time, and when he blinks he’s surprised to find that he’s moved _toward_ Sam, and it’s Sam that’s backing up, running straight into the wall and then tripping over the bedside table before he gets into the bathroom, though he doesn’t shut the door between them. They’re both fully clothed, of course they are. There’s nothing left on either of them that looks like what just happened but Dean can still feel the . . . the . . . the _thing_ in his ass. The cock that was shaped like Sam’s cock. 

“You had the same dream, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t—” Sam gasps, hand going up from his mouth to his hair, pulling. “I couldn’t—” He’s shaking his head, eyes darting. 

Bewildered. Sam looks _bewildered._

Dean sits heavily on the bed—Sam’s bed. Then groans and keels over, because maybe on the outside he doesn’t look like he’s just been fucked, but on the inside—God, on the inside he feels like a pinata left out for too long next to a baseball bat. 

Sam’s there the next instant, hands going for Dean’s forehead and shoulder like he’s done this a million times. He _has _done this a million times. Though not, Dean supposes, _this_ this. Sam’s hands are gone the moment he thinks it, like Sam’s realized it too.

_Or like he’s read my mind._

“I don’t—” Sam says. _Know how to fix it? Remember what happened? Think we should talk about it?_

“I know,” Dean replies anyway.

“I couldn’t stop it.”

“I know,” Dean says again, though it’s almost a lie. He didn’t know. He still doesn’t. 

“Oh, God, I . . . Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, putting his head in his hands so he only has to lie to his palms. “I know that, too.”

For a moment he sees John, stepping close to tell him that Sam is dangerous, that Sam might need to be _taken care of._

But the moment is gone as soon as it arrives. This is _Sam._

Sam grabs his duffel and sifts through it, presumably so he doesn’t have to look at Dean anymore. Whether because the dreams have freaked him out as badly as they’ve freaked out Dean, or because he’s guilty, Dean can’t tell. And not being able to read Sam like he always has freaks _Dean _out.

“It was . . .” Sam swallows hard, finds what he’s looking for in the duffel: a pair of socks. He sits down on Dean’s bed—as far away from Dean as possible—to pull them on. “It was just a dream, though, right?”

Dean scrubs his face with both hands, sighs. Watches Sam pull on his boots. He doesn’t know how to answer. Can’t bring himself to tell Sam about the soreness in his ass. Easier to lie: “Right.”

Sam nods. Nods again, like he’s fighting to convince himself. “Right. So. We should probably—”

“Get coffee,” Dean interrupts. “And breakfast. I’m starving. We passed a diner in town about a mile back.”

He isn’t starving. In fact, he’s kind of queasy. But pretending at normal is What They Do, and besides, he needs Sam out of here for a minute so he can think straight.

Sam looks disappointed, but he leaves to get coffee and breakfast, returns just long enough to set the food down on the table by the door, and then leaves again with some excuse about research. Dean has no doubt he’ll be gone for hours. Maybe even all day.

Dean thinks long and hard about finding a bottle or three of whiskey to lose himself in, and in the end the only reason he doesn’t get drunk for breakfast is the fact that he would have to leave the room to do so. Instead he grabs his duffel and stumbles to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He tries to talk himself out of more than that, but he puts the duffel against the door, too. 

Then begins the truly horrific process of checking all the layers he had put on last night. Everything’s buttoned and zipped up as good as new. It’s like an awful reverse gift-wrapping. Off with his flannel, then his tee, then his undershirt. With every layer he expects to see . . . _something._ Some evidence of what happened. He expects a, a stain, or a bruise, but instead he’s clear-skinned and clean. Everything feels the same except for . . .

He reaches back slowly. Down the back of his pants and boxers. Doesn’t let himself watch his reflection as he does it, though he doesn’t step away from the mirror. He presses one finger to the top of his crack, and then lets it drift almost accidentally down. 

It feels. Normal. Fine. Maybe a little damp, though certainly not dripping with blood and lube and come. 

And then his finger glances over his hole and he staggers forward into the bathroom sink as his knees give out because there’s someone behind him, there’s someone about to fuck him and he can’t move, he can’t stop it, he can’t even protest and he’s going to—

But it’s not, it’s not. He’s alone. Sam’s fucked off to a library or something and he’s alone in the motel bathroom with nothing but the clothes he may or may not have slept in and an asshole that may or may not have been used. He’s got no way of knowing which parts were real . . . If it happened in both of their heads or if something bothered to undress and redress them before and after. If something used them both as puppets or if . . . if Sam really—

No. Sam didn’t. Couldn’t. Would _never_. And this pain is all in his head. Phantom. Or maybe psychic. Maybe something’s trying to drive them insane.

It feels so damn real, though. If he were capable of peering into his own asshole, would he see signs of . . . of _use_?

Well, whatever. Standing around all day turning this over and over in his head won’t fix the fucking problem. He’s gotta _do _something. And since Sam and his laptop are probably already at the library, and he doesn’t think he can handle being in the same room with the kid right now regardless of _what’s _causing this mess, that pretty much just leaves Bobby.

Which, wow. That’s gonna be an interesting conversation. Dean’s cheeks heat just _thinking _about it.

“Shower first,” he says to his reflection. It’s totally not a stalling tactic. After all, he’s already in the bathroom, right? And all in his head or not, he’s got some _serious _skeeve to wash away.

He finishes undressing like a goddamn _boss _because fuck every single bit of this, that’s why. He’s not gonna let it win. He _can’t_. So what if he’s naked now. The door’s locked and he’s Dean Fucking Winchester, badass extraordinaire. 

He showers until the water goes cold.

When he’s dried and dressed again, he grabs his cell phone. Then paces the room for a good twenty minutes, phone in hand, trying to figure out what to say. Every version of this conversation that plays in his head is a total fucking disaster. 

Can’t avoid it forever, though. Not unless he wants to get raped by his own damn brother again tonight. Because one night might have been a nightmare but two nights is a curse and he’s not going to make it to three.

He’s pretty sure Bobby picks up on the second ring, but he’s so tense that he’s breathless, only manages to say Bobby’s name and screws that up anyway, speaks right over Bobby berating him for not calling sooner.

Bobby pauses, then. “Everything alright, son?”

“Fine,” he says automatically, and is kicking himself before the word’s fully out. Everything is _not_ fine. But Bobby’s the one who taught him the only manners he knows, so he follows up with a “How’s things going your side?” because that’s what happens next, and it’s easy, and it’s exactly what he’s supposed to say because Bobby lets out a deep grunt, a sound that makes Dean think of the sagging couch in the lounge room where Bobby might be sitting even now; an empty breakfast plate on the floor next to his foot and last night’s beer bottles arranged at the door. 

Okay. He can do this. 

Bobby says something about a hunter in the south, an idjit with a heart of gold, or something to that effect, and this is normal, this is how it goes. He doesn’t even need to really listen. 

And then Bobby pauses, long enough that Dean knows he’s supposed to fill in the gap with a comment, or a, a something. Instead he feels his heart drop down to his kneecaps and he opens his mouth and the thing that’s supposed to come next in the conversation doesn’t come.

“Yeah?” Bobby prompts, like he knows Dean’s had something else on his mind this whole time.

“Yeah, so, um. Listen Bobby, Sam and I have a . . .” He clears his throat, swallows. “A bit of a situation here we could really use your help on.”

“Thought you two were working a milk-run haunting.”

“No. I mean, yes. We were. It was a ghoul. We’re in Nebraska now . . .” 

He pauses too long, but Bobby’s “Spit it out, boy.” is just as much fondness as annoyance.

Dean scratches at the back of his head. “The uh. The last two nights, I’ve been having these . . . nightmares. And I think Sam has, too. The same ones, I mean.” He laughs, once, quiet and miserable. “Kinda think I might be cursed?”

He hears distant footsteps over the line, the sound of a heavy book thudding on a table. Pictures Bobby tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder to free up his hands for research. “What kind of nightmares?”

“Violent ones?” Dean tries.

A sigh, this time more annoyance than fondness. “Gonna need you to be a bit more specific than that, son.”

Yeah. Okay. He can do this. “I uh. I wake up in bed, and it’s . . . it’s like I’m really awake, you know? Like it doesn’t _feel _like a dream. Except I can’t move at all, I can’t talk, all I can do is blink. And Sam’s—” Nope. Okay. He can’t do this. His asshole clenches, and pain flares. “Sam’s, uh. He. He hurts me.”

Now it’s Bobby’s turn to pause too long. _Way _too long—it’s not like Bobby to be at a loss for words. Finally, _carefully_, he asks, “Hurts you how?”

He can’t. He _can’t_. “Does it matter?”

“Hurts you _how_, boy?”

Apparently it does matter. He lets his eyes close, blows out a noisy breath. Hears the faded sound of pages flipping over the line. “Bobby . . .”

He’s pretty sure the next sound over the line is Bobby’s teeth grinding. But there’s a reason he called the man—well, aside from the fact that he’s pretty much the only other hunter Dean knows. He’s _smart_. And he gives a fuck. And he knows what Dean means without Dean having to say it out loud.

“Could be an incubus,” Bobby says gently. Too gently. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that much gentleness.

Or maybe he’s just so uncomfortable because now Bobby _knows_. He’s gotta clear his throat a few times before he manages, “Me _and _Sam, though? At the same time?”

“Hmm.” More pages flipping. The scrape of chair legs on a hardwood floor. Dean pictures Bobby heading to some cluttered shelf to pull out some ancient book, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder again. “This might be a bit of an awkward question, son, but at the end of it, did you both . . . finish?”

A _bit _of an awkward question? Dean laughs that awful, sickly laugh again. Thinks really, _really _hard about lying. Can’t, though. Not if he wants to find a way to stop this. “Not the . . .” he manages. Runs out of air and has to try again. “Not the, the first.” Breathe. “Time.”

He’s speaking so quietly it’s a wonder Bobby can hear him. He can barely hear himself. Paper moves, and Bobby says, “And Sam?” like that question will be any easier than the last, and Dean’s going to fold himself into little pieces and slide right under the cheap motel rug and never come out again.

“Yes,” he breathes, barely any articulation except for the hint of an _s _at the end, but it’s enough.

Bobby breathes so deep it’s like all the air Dean’s missed over the last few minutes is over there in Bobby’s lungs. “It’s all right, son. Ain’t none of this your fault.” Another book thuds down onto Bobby’s desk. “Sorry I gotta ask this, but, the second time, did you enjoy it?”

“No I didn’t enjoy it!” Dean yells, and has to physically stop himself from hurling the phone into the wall by grabbing his wrist in his free hand. Remembers he’s in a cheap motel with flimsy walls and manages to lower his voice to a sharp whisper. “My_ brother’s cock_ was up my fucking _ass_, Bobby, and he was full-on fucking Jedi-mind-controlling me! I was terrified, and it _hurt_, and he _made me_, okay? I begged him not to and he crawled into my brain and somehow he fucking _made me come anyway_!” 

Dean realizes he’s shouting again, breathing so hard he’s dizzy. He’s still clutching at his wrist with his left hand. It’s gonna bruise, but somehow that feels right—the kind of marks he _should _have after what’s been done to him. A sound follows his outburst and he slaps a hand over his mouth and it takes him a full five seconds to figure out that he’d sobbed, dry and harsh. 

Bobby’s so silent that Dean finally pries the phone from his ear to make sure they’re still connected. Puts it back. Asks, voice cracking, “Bobby?”

A beat. Then, “I’m here, son.” Another beat, then, “Doesn’t sound like an incubus.” All business now, and Dean’s so grateful he didn’t fuck this up somehow, that Bobby doesn’t think he’s disgusting or weak or . . . or _worse_. “Did Sam say he was being mind-controlled too?”

Did he? “We didn’t, uh.” Dean’s eyes and throat are burning. There’s good whiskey in the car and he _wants _it, fuck, he wants it. “We didn’t really talk about it? But he said he couldn’t stop it.”

“Well put me on speaker.”

“He left, Bobby.” That sad, sad laugh again. “Couldn’t even bear to look at me.”

“He’ll be back, though, right?”

Shit. Dean hasn’t really thought about that, but now that Bobby’s mentioned it . . . He lets go of his wrist, drags his hand down his face. “I don’t . . . I don’t know, Bobby.”

“I’ll call him, son. Do some research, see what I can dig up. You just sit tight, lay your salt lines nice and thick, and maybe brew yourself a pot of coffee or five. Because until we get this figured out? I’d suggest you not fall asleep.”

Bobby hangs up, and Dean feels . . . bereft at the lost connection. He wants to be there in Sioux Falls as desperately as he _doesn’t _want to be there. But he’s stuck here, and he’s got work to do, so he sucks it the fuck up.

Sam’s got the car, so Dean walks to the nearest strip mall. It keeps him busy for a while, at least. When he gets there, he hits the Gas N Sip for energy drinks and sugary snacks, then heads into a pawn shop, where he finds four used but functional cameras and a door alarm he can hook up to Sam’s laptop. Mom n’ pop hardware shop next, where he buys several lengths of heavy-duty chain and even heavier-duty combination locks. He passes some froo-froo coffee shop on the way home, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t need it. He’s giving Bobby _one night _of no sleep to figure this out, and then he and Sam will just have to roster their sleep schedules.

It’s still early by the time he gets back to the motel room. More than enough time to set up all the gadgets paid for by two whole fake cards. He gets the door alarm in place by the time Bobby calls back to tell him that Sam’s at the library. 

“He’s following some leads,” Bobby says, and Dean doesn’t ask if Sam said anything about the nightmares, and Bobby doesn’t tell him, and that’s that. Bobby hangs up after promising to follow his own leads.

Dean sets up the cameras.

Sets up Sam’s laptop.

Sets up his snack corner.

Sets up a series of incubus traps, just in case Bobby’s wrong. (Bobby’s _never _wrong.)

And then, when the room is ready, he sets up himself.

Thick chain through the belt loops of his jeans, with one of the padlocks in place of a buckle. Zip ties up and down his shirt, with extra ties at the end of each sleeve.

He gets to test the set up almost immediately when the energy drinks force him into the bathroom. He spends a solid ten minutes trying to yank things off just to see if they’ll go, and even though he’s not planning on sleeping tonight he’s pretty pleased to see that there’s no way anything will be able to undress him without leaving very obvious tears. 

He’s about to put the combination into the lock when he remembers that he can just pull his dick out through the zipper hole.

He’s washing his hands when the door opens and five different alarms go off and his blood runs cold, but the next second Sam starts swearing and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, which is ridiculous because the monster’s been wearing Sam’s face, after all.

He pokes his head out of the bathroom.

“On the table,” he says, and Sam doesn’t even roll his eyes before picking up a silver knife, then handing it to Dean. He follows the silver knife with an iron one, and passes that to Dean too, hilt first, before picking up the flask of holy water and pouring it into his mouth from an inch away so Dean can actually watch the water go in. Dean puts the knives down and takes his own bolt of holy water.

Neither of them smoke, and neither of them are surprised by that.

Still, precautions, precautions. He leaves the items on the table in case they need them later, then turns to reset the alarms.

“Find anything at the library?” This feels good, this feels normal. This is just a hunt. This is _business,_ and it’s _their_ business. They’re good at this. Sam’s even looking him in the eye and everything.

“I know what it’s _not,”_ Sam says, and they talk about ghost possession like this is just another day at work, and when Sam calls it a case Dean doesn’t correct him, and when Sam calls them victims Dean doesn’t correct that, either. It could be happening to anyone else.

They manage to make it to ten talking about Sam’s research, and then they get another hour out of discussing Dean’s set up. They both check the salt lines and the incubus traps twice. Sam puts a chair under the doorknob.

“I’m going to stay up,” Dean says, and Sam nods like he’d expected that. 

“Wake me up if you need,” is all he says, like they’re swapping watch in enemy territory.

It’s midnight by the time Sam gets to bed, and Dean feels the curl of satisfaction that comes with doing something right. They’re going to beat this thing. _Third time’s the charm._

Sam takes a while to drop off, and even though he pretends he’s sleeping at first, Dean’s been familiar with the pattern of his breathing since they were kids. When Sam does finally relax into real sleep, Dean can’t help but look around the room, half expecting to see another Sam leering from the shadows. But they’re alone. It worked. 

He opens Sam’s laptop and starts trawling through the research Sam had dug up at the library. Sam snores once, making him jump, but then he rolls over, and now that Dean can see his face it’s obvious he’s still asleep.

Another twenty minutes pass and something makes Dean look up. He automatically checks the salt lines—still intact—and the door alarm—active—and the traps—untouched. He’s about to get back to work when his eyes track over to the little patch of darkness where Sam’s sleeping on the other side of the room, and _Sam’s staring back at him._

Slowly, Sam gets out of bed, and it’s not until Dean opens his mouth to ask if everything’s okay that he realises he _can’t._

The pit of his stomach drops out from under him and Sam tips his head back for him and leans down to press their lips together and he must have fallen asleep, he must have _fallen asleep,_ while sitting upright at the table, while sitting upright at the table with his energy drinks next to him and the alarms still active but inert around him and then Sam’s tongue is in his mouth and Sam presses forward and sits, straddling Dean backwards in the chair and Dean’s naked, how did, how did, this isn’t.

He’s been whammied. That’s how. Something got through the salt lines and the alarms and the traps and whammied him stupid, and this is all in his head, all just in his head, some kind of psychic attack, and even though he can’t see it, Sam’s asleep in his own bed and not straddling Dean’s lap and—

Sam kisses him, trails hands up his sides, then doesn’t bother tipping Dean’s head back down so Dean has to stare at the ceiling while Sam licks down his neck to bite at his Adam’s apple.

“Where were we?” Sam says, and he lifts Dean, turns them both around like Dean’s weight means nothing, and between one moment and the next they’ve somehow reversed positions. Even though he’s on top this time, he doesn’t feel powerful, or in control. He’s flopped against Sam’s chest. His head is on Sam’s shoulder and Sam’s hands creep down his back, searching blindly for his hole.

_No,_ Dean thinks, but it happens anyway. First Sam’s fingers, then his cock. Dean’s right up in Sam’s lap and Sam bounces him easily, using Dean’s gravity against him. When Sam comes he kisses Dean hard, and then almost as an afterthought brings Dean over with him, taking Dean’s dick from soft to hard to coming in a matter of seconds. 

Dean closes his eyes.

When he opens them Sam is in bed, looking back at him, and they stare at each other for a full five seconds before Dean stands up on shaky legs and locks himself in the bathroom. He doesn’t need to check his clothes. He knows the chains and zipties are still in place.

“Dean,” Sam says from outside the door.

Dean thinks about not answering, he really does, but, “Yeah, Sammy.”

They exchange awkward, lie-filled “Are you okay”s and “We’ll figure this out”s through the locked door. Then Sam packs his bag and heads for the library.

Dean calls Bobby.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby’s been doing his homework: he rattles off the names of four potential baddies Dean's never heard of, along with ways to trap, identify, and kill them. After a three-hour shopping trip for some . . .  _ esoteric _ supplies, Dean sets up his traps, following Bobby's instructions to the letter. The motel room looks like an entire graffiti gang descended on its every surface, but whatever. Better safe than sore— er, sorry.

He also books a second motel room. As far from the first as possible. And fills it with the same traps, sigils, and protections. He doesn’t tell Sam where it is.

They wordlessly agree to both stay up. 

Dean heads out an hour before midnight and takes the weapons bag with him. He sits in the chair opposite the door, and checks that his gun is loaded. 

Later, he’ll wonder how Sam managed to fuck him without even turning the safety off.

They don’t talk about it.

The next day he gets in the car and just drives. Drops Sam off in some hick town and then keeps driving, taking turns and loops like he’s running from cops, not a curse. By the time he pulls up at an awful motel in the middle of nowhere even  _ he _ isn’t sure where he is. 

But Sam finds him all the same. He gets fucked over the kitchen sink, with his head under the leaking tap and his lax feet slapping the bottom of the counter with every sharp thrust of Sam’s hips. 

He picks Sam up in the same place he dropped him off, and they don’t talk about it.

That night Sam offers to chain himself to a tree, and Dean doesn’t turn him down. He chains himself to another tree on the other side of town, just for good measure.

Sam uses the chains to hold him in place while he gets fucked against the trunk. The bark presses against his spine but Sam’s careful not to push so hard that it leaves scratches. At least, nothing that will last long enough for him to see in the morning.

He collects Sam just after dawn, and they don’t talk about it.

He tries to lock Sam up, lock himself up, lock them both up at once. He tries to hide in places Sam can’t possibly find him. But Sam does, he always does. Sam fucks him in every position under the sun, and in some Dean’s never even heard of. Sometimes he makes Dean come. Sometimes he doesn’t, or gets Dean hard but leaves it at that. One memorable night, when they stay within spitting distance of an Adult store, Sam brings toys, things attached to Dean’s chest and his balls and something else to push in ahead of his cock. The toys are gone in the morning. Another night, Sam slips fingers between Dean’s teeth and holds him by the lower jaw so he can fit his dick in there, too. That one makes Dean’s eyes well up with tears he can’t shed. Sam tastes like skin and something worse. He leaks precum over Dean’s tongue and the roof of his mouth and Dean can’t spit it out. He doesn’t even choke when it slides to the back of his throat. 

Later that night, Sam uses Dean’s spit to fuck him.

They don’t talk about that, either.

Bobby does the talking for them, when he can. They’ve gone through lists and lists of possibles, potentials, maybes. African dream root. Cursed objects. Demigods. Witches. Monsters so far-fetched they already know it can’t be that, but they try anyway. Dean’s itchy from anti-hex powders and potions. Sam’s got silver jewellery around his neck and wrists; every anti-curse charm they can think of, and then some they come up with themselves. They even drive all the way to New Orleans to meet with a priestess friend of Bobby’s, but it turns out she can’t help them either. That night, Dean hits up Bourbon St. without Sam and gets so drunk he blacks out until Sam’s dick wakes him, pounding harder than Dean’s head.

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about it.

Until, suddenly, they do.

They’re on their way to Bobby’s. Neither of them wants to be there but they need another set of eyes and there’s no one else they can trust with  _ this. _

They get two states away before Sam says, quietly, “Dean.” And Dean looks down and the car radio says it’s almost midnight. The curse doesn’t hit at a specific time, but he doesn’t want to be behind the wheel when he loses the ability to move.

He pulls off at a highway rest stop, behind a thin line of trees where the road is still visible. He doesn’t bother with the salt, or the chains, or the traps. They both know it’s not helping.

“Can you,” he says. He swallows thickly, looks out the driver window. “Can you try to take it easy?”

He can feel Sam looking over at him, but he doesn’t turn to check.

“I don’t . . . Dean, I don’t get to . . . You have to know I don’t have any say in how . . .”

Dean watches his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “Really?” he says. He doesn’t mean it to sound venomous but he doesn’t regret it when it’s out. “Really, Sam? You don’t have  _ any _ control? You’re telling me you’re getting your dick wet every night and you’re not  _ enjoying _ it?”

“Dean!”

“Don’t,” Dean spits, and spins to face him. Sam’s pale, and he holds his hands up like he’s the one scared of Dean.

“This is happening to me, too,” he says.

“Oh yeah? You wanna throw a punch or two? Better wait a bit so you know I can’t fight back.”

“Dean, Jesus! What’s gotten into you? You think I  _ want _ this? I, you don’t, do you have any idea what it’s like? Do you, fuck, do you know how it feels to spend every day knowing I’m gonna hurt you at the end?”

“No I  _ don’t know!” _ Dean yells back. “I would  _ never!” _

_ “I _ would never!”

Dean throws himself at Sam then, manages to land a punch before Sam gets an elbow in between them. 

“Stop!” he yells. “Dean, stop. Stop!”

“See?” Dean yells back, still clawing for a good hit. “See!”

Then instead of landing a fist in Sam’s face he’s landing sprawled in Sam’s lap and Sam kicks the horn while he turns them over but doesn’t hesitate before slicking his dick up and shoving in, not even bothering to prep Dean first. 

“See?” he whispers in Dean’s ear while Dean’s limp body slowly sinks into the footwell. “See? See?” 

When they wake up, Sam’s in the backseat and Dean’s in the front and there’s a bruise blooming behind Sam’s eye and Dean goes to get a beer out of the trunk. It’s not in the cooler but it’s February-cold, and Sam holds it to his face in lieu of an ice pack.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Fuck you,” Dean replies without venom. He hurts. More than usual, even. But it’s not like he can hold a beer to  _ his  _ wounds.

Sam makes a tired sound that could be a laugh, and they sit there for a few long minutes watching the sun climb higher. 

“Do we even know if it’s real?” Sam says eventually. “It could be, you know. In our heads.”

From the way he says it Dean assumes he’s had this conversation with Bobby already, the same as Dean’s had this conversation with Bobby already, too.

“I’m,” he says, then loses the rest of the sentence while he tries to think of a way to say it without  _ saying _ it. 

“Yeah?”

“When I wake up,” he tries, “I’m, you know . . .” He bites his lip, shifts a little in his seat. After all this time he still hasn’t found a way of sitting comfortably after a rough night.

“You’re what?”

“Sore,” Dean manages, not meeting Sam’s eye.

“O-oh.” There’s a long pause, and then, “Can you, you know . . . Is there any, any, er,  _ evidence?” _

Dean laughs bitterly. “I’m not flexible enough to check.”

There’s an even longer pause, and when Dean looks up he finds Sam watching him and, oh.  _ Oh. _ Sam could check for him.

“Jesus,” he swears.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” Sam says immediately. Which leaves . . . shit. Which leaves  _ Bobby, _ and thinking about Sam back there while he’s awake is bad, but thinking about  _ Bobby _ back there is even worse.

“Would you even be able to, you know . . .  _ see _ anything?”

“I, uh, I think last night you were, like, maybe bleeding a bit.”

Which.  _ Christ. _ Explains why he’s feeling like week-old roadkill.

And he can’t believe he’s considering this but, “Oh,” he says, then, “that’s, uh. Yeah, okay.”

Sam opens the beer he had been holding against his black eye and skulls it in one go. Dean gets out of the front seat because it doesn’t feel like this is something that should happen in his Baby. It’s still early, not a single car has passed them yet. But it feels impossibly wrong to reach for his jeans and start to push them down his thighs when it’s broad daylight and Sam’s  _ right there. _

He gets his jeans down to his knees then stands awkwardly in his boxers while Sam fumbles out of the backseat, trying not to look at him but not really looking anywhere else, either.

“What if you—” Sam says, at the same time Dean says, “I could just—”

They look at each other and Dean waves Sam on.

“Why don’t you, um, lean against the . . .” He taps Baby’s roof and Dean puts his hands there, looking in at the spotless interior where less than an hour ago he’d apparently been fucked so hard he’d bled.

“Just,” he says, and then doesn’t say anything else.

“I’m gonna,” Sam tells him, and then there are fingers in the waistband of his boxers and it’s not possible that this can be  _ worse _ than what happens at night, but it sure feels like it. He flexes the muscles of his arms just to remind himself that he can. His boxers end up at mid thigh and Sam coughs awkwardly. “I think,” he says, “that you, uh. I can’t see anything.”

Right.

Because this isn’t bad enough. 

He takes his hands off the roof and puts them on the seat instead, so he’s bent further forward. He spreads his legs as far as the jeans and boxers will allow. There’s the sound of crunching gravel, and he squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from thinking about Sam kneeling behind him.

“I still can’t see,” Sam says eventually. Apologetic.

Dean bows his head, opens his eyes to blink at the ground. “Yeah,” he tells his shoes. “Yeah, okay.” 

He takes his hands off the seat and leans his shoulder against the doorframe instead. Reaches behind and doesn’t let himself think about it. Digs fingers into his cheeks and spreads his ass and there’s a sharp inhale and a rush of movement and he turns just in time to see Sam lurching away before he pukes his beer up onto the side of the road.

Dean gets dressed and then goes to get a beer from the back, too. He had hoped that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t  _ actually _ getting fucked every night. But he’s not exactly surprised.

He drinks deep, and by the time he’s finished, so is Sam.

They get back in the car, and if Dean sits slightly tilted, Sam doesn’t mention it.

Dean heads straight to the shower when they reach Bobby’s. Strips. Stares into the mirror. He’s been . . . avoiding that lately. Turns out he looks as haggard as Sam. More, even. He contemplates turning around, bending over, trying to see what Sam saw, but really, what’s the point. He can  _ feel  _ it plenty fine enough.

By the time he’s washed and dressed and managed to haul himself out of hiding, Bobby’s putting the final touches on what looks like franks and beans (and by “final touches” Dean means enough red pepper flakes to smoke a demon from its meatsuit), and Sam is setting the table.

He doesn’t want to sit with them. He doesn’t want to eat.

But one look from Bobby, and of course he does both.

“Sam ‘n I been talkin’,” Bobby says when the silence moves from uncomfortable to downright oppressive. Of course they have. That’s all  _ any  _ of them have been doing lately, and Dean wishes they’d all shut the fuck up. “There are at least a few cases in the lore where psychic or even dream manifestations leave real physical damage behind.”

Sam looks so hopeful Dean wants to punch him again. 

“It’s not—” Tears swell so fierce and sudden he has to stop, choke them back. He stares down at his dinner so they won’t see. Runs his fork, aimless, through the slop on his plate. Takes a long, long swig of beer before he feels like he can talk again. “It’s not a dream, Bobby. It’s not some . . . psychic manifestation.” Another long swig of beer. His fingers are so tight around the glass he thinks he might shatter it. At least then the source of his pain would be  _ visible _ ; he lets his anger take over and slams the bottle back on the table, hoping, but it doesn’t break. “And it’s sure as fuck not an accident that Sam’s been so damn careful not to leave marks where I can see.”

“Now Dean—” Bobby begins, but Dean picks up his beer bottle just so he can slam it back down again, and Bobby shuts up.

A long moment of silence even more awkward than the last, and then Sam says, “Lock me in the panic room.” He drops his fork and stands up before anyone can respond, like he means  _ right now _ . He’s looking straight at Dean; Dean can tell even if he’s not looking back. 

Dean knows he’s supposed to put up at least a  _ token  _ argument— _ Sam can’t live in there forever _ —but he doesn’t have it in him. Not anymore.

Seems Bobby doesn’t, either. “It’s not a bad idea. Physical  _ or  _ psychic, nothing I ever seen or heard of could get out of that room.”

“And Bobby could add some sigils, turn it into a giant curse box so no matter  _ what _ , I couldn’t hurt you from there.” Sam pauses, tries to catch Dean’s eye again. Dean doesn’t have the heart to deny him when he’s being so fucking  _ earnest  _ and  _ wounded _ . “Right?”

So damn hopeful again. Dean  _ hates  _ it; it’s infectious. And he can’t afford to be hopeful, not even a tiny little bit. Because what if he lets himself believe, even for a second, that it won’t happen again tonight, and then . . . and then . . .

“Well, it’s worth a try,” Dean concedes.

So they clean up dinner, and then they grab the spray paint and three ancient books on curses off a pile behind Bobby’s couch and head into the basement to curse-proof the everything-else-proof panic room. Sam tries to help, but Bobby shoos him off with a gentle “Why don’t you set up your cot, son?”

Three hours later, the paint is dry and they’ve sat through all the  _ Rocky  _ movies Dean can bear and the clock is creeping toward midnight. It’s time.

Sam goes willingly into the panic room. Eagerly, even. He’s still so damn  _ hopeful _ , and for a moment Dean feels it too, despite his best efforts.  _ I’m gonna sleep through the night tonight. Nothing’s gonna hurt me tonight. We’re gonna  _ end  _ this. _

But then he reminds himself that even if this works, they still won’t know  _ why _ , still won’t know how to make it stop forever without making Sam live the rest of his life in that box. Well, the rest of Dean’s year, anyway: all three months of it. Once he’s in the real Hell instead of just this brother-related one, Sam probably won’t hurt anyone else.

On that note, he heads upstairs to crash, hopefully uninterrupted, for the night. Setting up the bed in Bobby’s spare room is one of his most familiar childhood memories. Once upon a time he and Sam had played rock-paper-scissors for the floor, or the couch downstairs. It’s where he had learned to lose so badly, because his little brother had always come first.

He gets undressed, then redressed in the clothes he’s been calling pajamas lately, and then puts the little bottle of lube on the bedside table, just in case and because hope, frankly, is  _ stupid _ . They had tried to get rid of it, but if there’s nothing readily available then Sam just uses his spit or—even worse—nothing at all. Once, memorably, it had been his tongue. Sam had spent an hour the next morning brushing his teeth, and they always leave lube in easy reach now. It’s a not-so-nice little acknowledgement that they’ve failed, and they know it. Besides—and bizarrely—it’s not like any of the lube ever actually goes  _ missing. _ It’s always exactly where they left it in the morning, and just as full. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Dean calls Bobby in. Bobby’s eyes flick from Dean’s pajamas—layers and layers of shirts—to the little bottle.

“You want me up here or downstairs?” he asks, not mentioning either. He’s holding a shotgun loose at his side, shells loaded with a little bit of everything they can think of: salt, sanctified iron, silver, goofer dust, a mix of like fifty different dried herbs, even a splash of holy water.

“With Sam,” Dean says automatically. “And you’ll . . . If he needs you, you’ll hear?”

“I’ll hear.” They stand awkwardly for a few moments and then Bobby clears his throat. “This’ll work, son,” he says. And he claps Dean on the shoulder like they’re about to leave for battle. Which isn’t all that inaccurate. 

Bobby closes the door on his way out, and Dean locks it behind him, then sits on the edge of the bed. It’s still uncomfortable. He still  _ hurts. _ He looks at the awful innocuous little bottle and thinks about using it early, making himself loose and wet for Sam so it won’t hurt as much.

But that would mean . . . That would mean he was a part of it. A  _ willing _ participant. 

Still, it would be nice. To not hurt so much in the morning.

He’s tired of hurting like this all the time.

But this is going to work. Bobby said it himself. Nothing can get out of the panic room. Tonight he’s going to sleep ‘til morning.

He picks up the lube anyway. Clicks it open—

_ Sam on top of him, Sam behind him; holding his leg out of the way or pushing his soft cock to the side or spreading his cheeks with one hand and in the other hand the awful  _ click _ of the bottle and he’s going to do it again he’s got— _

Panting, Dean clicks it closed.

He. Fuck. He can’t do that. 

_ Fuck that. Yes I can.  _

He clicks it open again and grits his teeth through the flurry of memory, then squeezes a dollop onto his finger before he can think about it. It’s cold—intimately so. He rubs it between his thumb and finger and it warms up fast. He uses his other hand to push his pants and boxers down and hesitates there, one hand lube-slick and the other clutched around the bunch of fabric.

He could reach behind himself and just . . . do it. Make this whole thing easier. It’s not complicity; it’s just . . . pragmatism. 

He puts one knee on the bed and puts his hand on his asscheek and makes it almost to his crack before he has to pull away, fighting the rush of sense memory: slick hands in the exact same place, doing the exact same thing, while he didn’t— _ couldn’t _ —move a muscle to stop them.

He bows his head and looks down at the familiar, worn bedspread, and then the bedspread is rushing up to meet him and the only reason he doesn’t smack his forehead open on the headboard is because hands catch him on the way down, and he’s being lowered onto the covers and this isn’t happening, this  _ can’t  _ be happening, Sam’s locked up in the basement in a box that’d hold the devil himself and Bobby’s on guard with a shotgun full of literally everything under the sun and—

_ Oh god, Bobby. No no no no no no . . . _

“Bobby’s fine,” Sam murmurs. “Just sleeping. You know I’d never hurt him.”

_ Yeah, sure. Just like you’d never hurt  _ me _ ? _

Sam doesn’t respond to that. Says instead, “I see you missed me, big brother,” tapping Dean’s lubed-up hand.

_ Fuck you _ , Dean thinks as hard as he can, but all Sam says is, “Here. Let me help you.”

Dean didn’t realize any further depths of horror could exist beyond what he’s already suffered at Sam’s hands, but it turns out that’s just a failure of imagination on his part: Sam takes Dean’s lubed-up hand in his own and pulls it around behind Dean. Then uses his mojo, or whatever it is, to stick Dean’s lubed fingers out straight, and uses his own fingers to push Dean’s in.

“Good, right?” he says warmly, and Dean would puke if he could. He’s . . . warm. Inside. On his  _ inside. _ Sam has to use a bit of force to get his fingertips in but then there’s give and he feels his body open up, and then it opens up even more when Sam forces his fingers in after, rubbing up against Dean’s like he’s trying to hold Dean’s hand in there. He’s spent a lot of time with things in his ass recently but it still hurts, it’s still too much. He wants to be  _ anywhere _ but here.

_ Stop, stop, stop. _

“If you wanted me so bad you should have just said,” Sam tells him fondly, rubbing through the lube Dean had squeezed out for the sole purpose of making this  _ not _ hurt. Ha!

Sam pulls his fingers free and leaves Dean’s where they are, taking a moment to position Dean better on the bed; one foot still hanging off the side and the other bent beneath him. It feels awful and weird and awful being moved with his fingers still lodged in place, but Sam seems inclined to leave them there. He doesn’t even bother pulling them out as he lines himself up and rubs the head of his dick over Dean’s ass and knuckles. 

Then he’s shoving in, and it’s exactly as bad as always. He fits his dick in beside Dean’s fingers and it’s more of a stretch than usual; more than anything he’s had before. He feels his body straining to flinch away but of course it doesn’t. His breathing doesn’t even increase. He can feel his heartbeat against his fingertips and it’s slow, slow like he’s sleeping.

Sam squeezes in deeper, and Dean’s always known he was  _ big _ but it’s different feeling it against the backs of his fingers. The way Sam keeps  _ going. _ How hard he is. How  _ hot, _ almost the exact same temperature as Dean’s insides.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “We’re made for each other, aren’t we?” And then he’s in, all the way in, and his hip is pressing against the back of Dean’s hand, forcing his fingers deeper, too. Sam takes Dean’s wrist one-handed and jostles it gently, pulls it back a little to push it further in so Dean’s fingers slide between the side of Sam’s dick and his ass. Sam groans above him and Dean can  _ feel _ the way his dick twitches.

There’s a click and a swoosh of moving air and for a moment Dean’s too distracted by his own humiliation to place it.

_ The door. _

The door has just opened and someone . . . someone’s in the room with them.

“It’s just you and me,” Sam croons. “Forever and ever—” he kisses the back of Dean’s neck “—and ever, and ever.”

But he’s wrong, they’re not alone, there’s, there’s . . . There! The sound of something being moved, a chair maybe. Papers rustling by the window.

God, it’s Bobby. It has to be Bobby. Dean can only see the bathroom door from this angle but it can’t be anyone else. Bobby’s woken up or broken the curse or, or . . .

“Just us,” Sam says again. He fucks in a little harder, like he’s making sure that Dean can feel him. 

Bobby must be able to see that. Bobby must be watching them. God, why isn’t he stopping it? He must be  _ disgusted. _ Dean’s just lying here, letting Sam fuck him. Dean’s fingers are in his own ass. This doesn’t look like he’s getting used, this looks like he’s a part of it.

He puts all his energy into screaming for help, but Bobby doesn’t come any closer. From the sounds of it he’s rummaging in the bookshelf. And then he’s walking past the bed, toward the bathroom, and Dean can see the lower half of him and he’s wearing jeans but that’s not . . . those aren’t Bobby’s jeans. Those aren’t Bobby’s  _ legs. _ Bobby isn’t that slender, and he definitely doesn’t wear heeled black boots.

The boots step closer to the bed, so he can see the laces. A stranger is watching Sam fuck him.

“Wakey wakey, Sam”

Sam jerks away, and then there’s a thump and a grunt from behind Dean, and his ass is  _ burning  _ where Sam’s pulled out too fast and his skin is twitching where it’s freshly exposed to cold air, and he’s so lost in the horror and despair of the night that it takes him a moment to recognize the voice of his savior: “ _ Ruby _ ?”

She turns to him, and he realizes he’s spoken out loud. That he  _ can  _ speak out loud. That he can move. Cheeks flaming, he yanks his fingers out of his ass, lurches upright, scrabbles for the blanket and wraps it around his waist.

“You’re welcome,” she says, voice amused, eyes roaming his skin like she’s contemplating a new meatsuit. Before Dean can get his head straight enough to ask what she’s doing here, she turns to Sam, still pinned to the wall, and her expression hardens.

“We talked about this, Sam. You promised me you wouldn’t let the power take over. You promised me you’d never hurt the people you love. You  _ promised _ .”

Sam shakes his head. “I,” he says. “I didn’t mean . . .” His eyes are wide and terrified, and it doesn’t look like he can move.  _ Good—now you know how I feel _ , Dean lets himself think for a single second before kicking himself. That’s  _ Sam! _

“Oh we’re gonna talk about what you  _ mean, _ huh?” Ruby rolls her eyes. “Don’t know, don’t care. Here, have some perspective.” She snaps her fingers and the back of Sam’s head hits the wall behind him and his eyes screw up in pain. “Remember now?” Ruby asks.

“Don’t you fucking touch him,” Dean snarls. “What are you talking about? How did you get  _ in  _ here?”

“Baby brother blew the wards. All that  _ power _ . . . Didn’t you feel it? Oh, wait, no, you were too busy feeling Sam’s dick up your ass.”

Well, same old Ruby, huh? “You got something to say, skank, say it before I shove my foot up  _ your  _ ass.”

“Big words for a man who couldn’t move until I got here. I came to  _ save  _ you, shortbus.” She gestures impatiently at the candles and sigils and herbs scattered across the floor. “Your sweet little baby brother here’s been letting some dark, dark desires ooze up from the back of his brain while he’s sleeping.”

Sam makes a pathetic little noise, somewhere between panic and a strained whimper, and Dean remembers Ruby’s got him pinned to the wall and is, by the look on his face, hurting him.

“Let him go.” He can hardly believe he’s saying that—Sam  _ was  _ just raping him, after all—but he’s pretty sure whatever spell Ruby cast made the kid himself again and even if it didn’t, he never could stand Sam’s pain. When Ruby just stares at him like he’s grown a second head, he says again, slow and deliberate, “Let. Him. Go.”

Ruby shrugs. “Your funeral.”

Sam hits the floor in a tangle of gasping breaths and too-long limbs. He doesn’t immediately attack Dean, which is a good sign. Instead he looks down at himself and realizes he’s naked and . . . and  _ hard _ and makes a literal squeak of horror and covers himself with both hands, and that’s an even better sign. 

“Oh God,” Sam practically sobs. “Oh God, oh Dean, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

Ruby waves a careless hand, and Sam’s jaw clicks shut.

“Now’s the time to  _ listen,  _ Sam. Not talk.”

“So  _ talk _ ,” Dean growls. “What power?”

“Dean—”

Ruby waves her hand again, but Sam fights it, somehow. Manages to grit out, “Wait, let me tell him. It should be me!”

“Fine,” Ruby sighs, cocking her hip and folding her arms across her chest. “Tell him.”

Sam looks him dead in the eye. Opens his mouth, shakes his head.

“If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“No, no, I will, I just . . . Dean, I. I. Shit. I’m . . . powerful.” How he manages to look sincere while cupping his dick is something else. “Ruby,” he says, “she’s . . . she’s making me powerful.”

“Whatever that bitch is selling you, Sam, you gotta know it’s—”

“She’s not selling me anything, she’s  _ helping. _ She’s making me stronger, Dean, you have no idea what I can do!”

Dean stares at him coldly. “I think I have a pretty good idea, actually.”

Sam recoils so hard he slams his head into the wall all by himself this time. “No, that’s not, this isn’t, I never wanted  _ this!” _

Ruby snorts. “Well  _ this  _ is what you get when you play with the grown-ups, Sammy.”

“Don’t you call him that,” Dean snarls, and he looks around for a weapon even though he knows nothing in reach will work on a  _ demon. _

“I can control it,” Sam says, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s talking to him, but Sam’s facing Ruby. He’s arguing with  _ Ruby. _ “I can, I know I can.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Ruby croons. “We both know you  _ can, _ but you don’t really want to, do you?”

Sam’s face pales like he’s in pain, and Dean throws caution to the wind and leaps off the bed because if she’s  _ hurting _ Sam it doesn’t matter what she is, she’s going to meet his fist.

He gets thrown back into the wall for his effort, and he grabs for the blanket again to cover himself back up. 

“I don’t want it,” Sam insists, looking like he hadn’t even seen the brief scuffle.

“Sure, Pinocchio, but I can see your nose from here.” Ruby takes a step toward Sam and squats so she’s almost level with him. “I warned you that this shit would open you up for all kinds of hidden desires.” She flicks a finger at Dean. “Now why don’t you give your goodbyes to brother dearest, and then we can hit the road.”

_ “Excuse _ me,” Dean says. “What do you think you’re—”

“Shush now, Mommy and Daddy are talking.”

“If you think you’re gonna take Sam  _ anywhere _ —”

“Oh I’m not  _ taking _ Sam, he’s going to come with me, aren’t ya, beansprout?”

Sam looks stricken, but he meets Dean’s eyes. “Dean,” he says, and Dean knows what he’s about to say already.

“You can’t actually be considering going with this, this,  _ her! _ I don’t know what she’s sold you on but we can fix it, you know we can!”

“It’s not— Dean, it’s not the kind of thing to  _ fix. _ I have to . . . I have to keep going or in a few months you’re going to, to get . . . and I, I  _ can’t let that happen, _ and she’s going to help me.” He gets to his feet, and Dean makes to get to his but finds that his legs don’t work. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls.

“I mean, he  _ could _ stay,” Ruby says cruelly. “But you’ll be getting a visitor every night, and something tells me you’re not okay with that, either.”

Sam turns to look at him, and Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“Yeah,” Sam says softly, turning back toward the door. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s going to leave. He’s going to go through that door with some two-bit demon and he’s not going to come back. And it won’t be like Stanford, where he’s somewhere tangible and knowable and living his life. He’s going to fall off the radar and that’ll be that.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait, no, Sammy, come on, wait a second.”

“This is the only way,” Sam tells him without turning around. “I can’t . . . I can’t keep  _ hurting  _ you in my sleep, Dean, and I can’t stay awake forever.”

“No, we can, we can sort this out. I know you don’t want to do . . . do this shit anymore. I know you don’t really want it. Stay, come on, stay, please, we can make it so it doesn’t happen. We’ll find a way to keep you out. Whatever she’s done. We’ll find a way around it.”

“It won’t work,” Sam says, his head turning only slightly so all Dean can see is his back and the shadow of one cheek. “This is the only way.” 

Ruby opens the door and waves him through it and then Sam’s in the hallway and this is it, this is the last time Dean’s ever going to see him and then in a few months he’s going to be dead and it’ll all be for nothing and—

“Stay,” he begs. “Stay, Sammy, I don’t, I don’t care about the, I don’t  _ care _ ! Sam, please!”

He’s propped against the wall with his useless arms and his useless legs and a useless blanket covering the rest of his useless body. But he’s got his head. And his mouth. And he’s not going to let this happen.

“I don’t care,” he says again. “I’ll take a thousand more nights of this if I have to.”

“Sam,” Ruby yells, sounding like she’s already at the front door. Sam’s almost gone. He’s almost disappeared behind the doorframe but he pauses there with one foot at the top of the stairs and he turns back to look. Dean must be one hell of a sorry sight on the floor next to Bobby’s old saggy bed under the old moth-eaten blanket but this is for Sam, too.

“Stay,” he says again. “And we’ll deal with all the rest of it. Just. Stay.”

“You don’t want that,” Sam says.

“Don’t tell me what I don’t want.”

Sam sneers at nothing in particular. Himself, maybe. “What if I told you I  _ do _ like it, huh? What if I told you I  _ want _ this, that I’ve been fantasizing about it since you hit puberty and turned all . . . hard and pretty.”

That makes Dean’s blood run cold but this is Sam, this is  _ Sam. _ And it’s not like it hasn’t occurred to him already. “I don’t believe you,” he lies. “And even if I did, what would it matter?”

“You don’t mean that.”

_ “Don’t tell me what I mean! _ We’re  _ family, _ you’re my  _ brother. _ We’ll make it fucking work! I don’t know what she’s done, but whatever power she thinks she’s helping you with, I can handle it. And if we can’t get rid of it? I’d still rather have you here than with her.”

“Sam!” Ruby shouts again, and then she tramps back up the stairs and shoves past where Sam’s frozen, and she sneers at Dean and leans forward to grab the doorknob. “Goodbye, and fuck off,” she says, and she’s about to slam the door but Sam puts a hand on her shoulder, and he’s not even looking at her, he’s looking at Dean.

“Are you sure?” he says, and Ruby says, “What the fuck?” at the same time that Dean says, “Yes,” and then Sam shoves Ruby back through the open door, except he’s still not moving, she’s being shoved by something Dean can’t see. And her mouth opens wide but she’s not yelling, or screaming. Black smoke pours out of her mouth and falls to the floor in inky blobs and that’s, holy shit, that’s Sam. Sam’s doing that. That’s  _ Sam. _

_ I’m powerful. _

And then the girl who was once a demon falls to the floor, and Sam falls to his knees, and Dean falls over all at once. He manages to catch Sam on the way down and they’re both still naked but it doesn’t really seem all that important anymore. Not when Sam’s got blood on his face and hands, streaming from his nose. 

Dean puts his forehead against Sam’s and doesn’t really say much of anything, except gentle platitudes that he doesn’t think Sam hears anyway.  _ I’m powerful, _ Sam had said. But they’ll figure it out.

And then John’s voice in his ear.  _ If you can’t stop Sam from going darkside, you’re going to have to kill him. _

He holds Sam tighter.

Not gonna happen.

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him, and prays it’s not another lie. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Sam sniffles a bit, wipes blood and snot and whatever else onto Dean’s bare shoulder. “Dean,” he croaks, and neither of them move but he’s listening, of course he is. No more Ruby. Just the two of them, now. “Dean, did you mean what you said? About . . .

Dean swallows hard and hopes it doesn’t make his pause too long. Deals. Always deals. Do they  _ ever  _ work out in the end? “Yeah, I, yeah, course I did.”

“I still, I still have to— I mean, when I go to sleep I can’t control it, I mean I don’t  _ think  _ I can, and I’m going to— I’ll still—” he moans and hugs him tighter. 

“You won’t,” Dean says gently. “She’s gone now.”

“That’s not . . .  _ She _ didn’t make me, it’s the, it’s this  _ power. _ I. She made me remember. How I. It’s like all the normal stuff just disappears and all I can think about is you, even though that’s not, Dean, that’s not, you know that’s not how I, how I—”

Dean hushes him gently. They’re huddled on the floor like they used to do during thunderstorms, except this time the monster’s not roaring outside. The monster’s cold and insidious, and it’s sitting somewhere in between them, the sliver of empty space between their bodies. 

“You don’t want me like that,” Dean finishes for him, and Sam nods, then shakes his head.

“That’s not. It’s. It’s like it’s pulling out a tooth. Like a bad tooth. Like there’s this bad thing inside my head that’s been there for so long that I didn’t even notice it anymore, and this . . . this  _ power  _ found it and made it worse, and then, shit, it just tugs on it at night when my guard is down and makes me do things I’d never, Dean, that I’d  _ never _ — _ ” _

“Christ,” Dean says. 

“And the strangest thing is that I can’t even . . . I mean, Ruby didn’t teach me this. We . . . I exorcize demons, that’s it! When I’m awake I can’t even, even  _ think _ about doing . . .” Sam shakes his head. “The mind-reading and the, the telekinesis and the . . .” He gestures miserably at Dean’s crotch:  _ the Jedi mind control _ .

“It scares you.” The realization hits Dean like one of Sam’s whammies: Sam’s as terrified of these powers as Dean is. “When you’re awake, you shove them down. Just like . . . like . . .” He swallows. Can’t say it. He loves Sam, loves him more than anything in this world or the next, but not like  _ that _ . Doesn’t want to think about Sam loving  _ him  _ like that either.

Sam nods, and hides his face back in Dean’s shoulder. “They’re  _ evil _ ,” he moans. “It’s, it’s  _ Yellow Eyes  _ and his whole, his whole damned plan and I don’t want it, Dean, I  _ don’t want it _ . But it’s  _ in me _ , I’m, I’m  _ stuck  _ with it, so if I can do something good with this, if I can  _ save  _ you . . .”

Dean shushes him, holds him, lets him cry. Fear swells in his chest, for Sammy  _ and  _ himself. This is . . . this is worse than he ever could’ve possibly imagined that first night he woke up, frozen, with Sam on top of him. He doesn’t know how to fix this.

“And lemme guess: even though you know now, consciously, I mean . . . It’s still going to happen, isn’t it?” Dean rests his chin on Sam’s head. “Tonight.”

“I’ll try to stop it,” Sam tells his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean allows, “but will it work?”

Sam doesn’t answer that.

“Okay,” he says. It doesn’t matter. He’s still going to pick Sam. “Let me, just. Let me go check on Bobby. You can get dressed and clean up and we’ll . . . Go to bed.” 

“Okay,” Sam says hollowly. Doesn’t say anything else. What else is there?  _ Let’s go to sleep so I can fuck you properly? _

They pull apart like loose threads, almost too tangled to make it all the way until suddenly they’re separate, and Sam flinches from Dean’s nakedness, and Dean pointedly doesn’t look at Sam’s. He finds his clothes in a pile and ignores the layers, only bothers with his boxers and a single flannel. Then he heads downstairs. 

Bobby’s slumped on a folding chair facing the panic room. His gun is on his knees and his chin is on his chest and Dean realizes he has no idea whether Bobby’s asleep-asleep, or frozen-asleep. He assumes the former, otherwise Bobby would have woken up at the same time Dean did. But still.

“Bobby,” he whispers. “If you can hear this, everything’s . . . everything’s okay. We’re okay. It’s sorted.”

Bobby doesn’t move, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest, and Dean heads back upstairs.

Sam’s sitting on the bed with his hands clenched into fists on top of his knees, his head hanging like a scolded child. Or a child  _ waiting _ to be scolded.

“Hey,” Dean says. He sits next to Sam. Doesn’t really know what to say next so he pats the bed, and when Sam doesn’t move he gets under the covers first. He has to practically kiss the wall to make enough room on the other side, but Sam somehow gets his gigantic body in, while still leaving enough space between them that they’re not actually touching, anywhere.

“Night,” Dean says. A little—a lot—awkwardly.

“Night,” Sam echoes.

It doesn’t happen fast, or all that slow. It just happens. And he knows it’s started because there’s no one behind him. He’s still dressed, though. That’s different. And he sits up in bed, under his own steam. That’s different too. But it’s also as far as Sam lets him go before he’s frozen, like always. 

Sam flicks the light on, silently and without touching or looking at it. He’s entirely focused on Dean. “So I guess the cat’s out of the bag for you  _ and  _ for boring old conscious me, huh.” 

“I guess,” Dean says warily, and the sound actually leaves his mouth so that’s different too. And since he  _ can  _ still talk, he’s gotta try . . . “Don’t do this, Sammy. You promised you’d fight it. Whatever evil influence, whatever’s bubbling up inside you, it’s not  _ you _ !”

“Yes it is, Dean. Conscious me may not want to admit it, and neither do you, but this thing  _ in  _ me? It  _ is  _ me.”

“No, Sammy.” Dean’s voice cracks on threatening tears. “ _ No _ .” He wants so badly to hold the kid, shake him, wrap him in his arms and squeeze until Sam loves himself as much as Dean loves him . . . But he doesn’t; he still can’t move anything but his face. “Look. This . . . this  _ power  _ you have.  _ You  _ have it.  _ You  _ control it. Don’t let it control  _ you _ . Please, Sam.  _ Please _ .”

Sam’s face crumples—his whole  _ being  _ crumples, in that way that makes his beyond-enormous frame look small. “I can’t, Dean.” His voice is small, too. Watery. Sad. “And I can’t stop, either. These powers . . . I  _ can’t  _ . . . I know now that I can’t control them yet, but—”

“So  _ stop using them _ !”

“I can’t! This is how I  _ save you _ , Dean! You said you were okay with this! You  _ got into bed with me _ !” He pauses, shuffles, hangs his head like he’s ashamed he’s yelled. Like that’s the worst fucking thing he’s done tonight, or is gonna do. And maybe he reads that from Dean’s mind, because he meets Dean’s eyes and murmurs, all little-brother needy, “But I don’t . . . I  _ can’t  _ keep hurting you. So tell me how to make it okay.”

There  _ is  _ no making this okay. There’s no way to make this not hurt. And he doesn’t want to be—he  _ refuses  _ to be—saved by damning Sam. But he can’t say any of that now, not to  _ that  _ face and  _ that  _ voice and that much desperation. “First, stay outta my head.”

Sam sniffs back tears, nods furiously. “Done. I promise. Never again.” 

“And I need my hands.”

No nodding this time. Sam hangs his head again, shuffles, sticks his hands in his pockets, pulls them back out. “Are you gonna, um . . .”

“I’m not gonna fight you, Sam,” Dean says as gently as he can without literally making himself puke. “You’re my brother, and I love you, and it’s my job to take care of you no matter what.” He stops, swallows back the nausea. None of this is a lie, but . . . “So let me take care of you.”

Next thing he knows, Sam’s shuffling toward him, not like the sexual predator of the last few weeks but like the scared little brother who’s had a nightmare, needs a hug. And Dean could never deny him that, opens his arms to Sam and wraps him up and holds him, rocks him as Sam buries his head in Dean’s shoulder. Realizes belatedly that Sam’s released not just his arms but  _ all  _ of him, hates how grateful he feels for that when Sam had no right to control him in the first place, when he knows damn well why Sam stopped.

“We’re not done talking about this,” he says gently. “The power, and how you got it. What she did to you.” Sam nods. Dean strokes his fingers through Sam’s hair like he used to when Sam was a kid. “We’ll figure it out.” 

“I can’t lose you,” Sam says into Dean’s shoulder. He’s crying, Dean can feel the warm wetness seeping through his layers. But then there’s  _ other  _ warm wetness: Sam’s lips and tongue at Dean’s neck. He grits his teeth, keeps his arms around his baby brother.

“I know, Sammy. It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

He sucks in a fortifying breath as Sam’s mouth works at the skin of his throat. Another, and another. He can do this. He  _ can _ .

The buttons at the wrists of his flannel pop. Sam’s face is still buried in his neck but apparently Sam’s powers can multitask. Dean pulls back, puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and pushes gently. “No, Sammy. That’s not okay, okay?”

Sam lifts his head to look at him. His eyes are red, his cheeks tear-stained, his expression like a five-year-old who’s just had his ice cream stolen. But, “Okay,” he says, and the cuffs magically button back up. “But it. It has to be . . . There has to be something. I can . . . I can feel it  _ raging  _ inside me, it’s, it’s  _ evil  _ but I have to  _ feed  _ it, Dean.”

Well that’s absolutely fucking terifying. But at the same time, Dean’s more relieved than he cares to admit, because Sam might not be giving him a choice, but at least he’s giving him  _ choices _ . He makes himself reach between them with a shaking hand, brush fingers over the obvious bulge in Sam’s jeans. “Here, Sammy. Let me.”

Sam nods, and that miserable expression fades. When Dean pops Sam’s button— _ not  _ with his mind, thank you very much—and undoes his zipper, Sam spreads his legs wide, leans back on his hands with a sigh.

“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean says as he pulls Sam’s dick from his jeans. “It’s okay,” he says as he strokes Sam, awkward at first but then he pretends it’s his own dick, just another jerk-off session, and it’s easier then. When Sam comes all over Dean’s fist, Dean murmurs, “That’s it, Sammy, that’s how you don’t hurt me.”  _ Well, more or less, anyway _ . And when Sam’s tucked back into his pants and clinging to Dean’s side like a damn lamprey, Dean promises again, “We’ll figure this out.” 

He  _ wants  _ to believe that, but he’s not sure he can.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s got three months left, and come hell or high water, he’s spending them with Sam. Saving Sam. 

No matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always here is a READ MORE recommendation list for your convenience: If you enjoyed sleep sex but would prefer a happier wincest ending, we highly recommend [Dean Winchester and the Curse of Erotic Somnambulism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125297) by HazelDomain. Which I've definitely recced before but that's just to make sure you've all read it.  
If, however, you like your somnambulism with a whole steaming pile of Sam torture then holy goddamn heck will you enjoy [Your Touch Is A Lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059165) and the others in the series, by the almighty cabbage, Dragonwithatale. MIND THE TAGS (on both of them but specifically the steaming pile of sam mindfucking that is option 2).
> 
> Thanks for reading :D


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